


you breathe the strangest twist upon your lips

by gearsystem



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, Drug Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Physical Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punk John Watson, goth sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearsystem/pseuds/gearsystem
Summary: In 1990, John Watson is tormented by his home life, and finds comfort in his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. When abuse, internalized homophobia, and pressures of the era push down on John, he finds himself drowning in the choices he makes, and the choices he let fall through the cracks. Will he be able to regain control of his life as he removes himself from the hell of his childhood?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. gambling never got me anywhere

_Death on two legs_

_You're tearing me apart,_

_Death on two legs_

_You never had a heart of your own_

_~ Death On Two Legs by Queen_

**March 1990**

_—_

His father may be the only one with alcohol running through his veins, but the Watson household slows and sloshes with drink as if it exists in the walls.

John sits in his bedroom late on Saturday night, with Sex Pistols playing softly on his record player. He knows he’s listening to it wrong; the music can only be appreciated fully when the sheer volume shakes the foundations. If it plays any louder, his dad is bound to burst through the door, full of rage and hatred, ready to slap his calloused palm across his son’s face. The lyrics whisper in the background of John’s thoughts, attempting to distract him. The muffled shouting from downstairs is masked by the heavy punk beat.

A pan hits the kitchen floor downstairs with a loud _pang_ and it shatters the illusion John is inhabiting. His mother’s gasp can be heard through the floorboards and John stops breathing for ten seconds. He fights the urge to rush down to the ground floor and protect her, knowing that would only worsen the situation. As an alternative, he turns all his bedroom lights out, pulls the duvet over his head, and covers his ears with the thickest pillow he can find. 

“Sshhhh,” he whispers to himself, though he is not the one making noise. The shouting from below only gets louder in John’s mind, suffocating his thoughts. 

He takes a deep breath, pushes his pillow up closer to his ear, and shuts his eyes. He thinks sleep is impossible, but exhaustion eventually overtakes him.

—

He wakes the next morning with an uncomfortable layer of sweat covering his back. Gritting his teeth, John forces himself to get up and change his shirt. On Sunday mornings, John’s mother makes him and his sister get dressed before coming down to breakfast (in church attire, of course), so he shimmies out of his loose boxers and vest, putting slacks and a light grey button-up on. Sid Vicious’ voice wriggles into his mind, repeating over and over the rebellion he so wishes to perform. 

_“Don’t be told what you want_

_Don’t be told what you need”_

John sighs despite himself and leaves the safety of his bedroom to face the day. Downstairs, the sound and smell of fry up envelopes everything. The sweet smell of the beans, the sausage sizzling on the pan, the hint of egg surrounding it, the perfect aroma of toast, and the tomatoes add a bit of freshness to it all. The beauty of his mother’s breakfast almost erases the knowledge that the same pan those sausages sit in now, hit the floor only 8 hours previous, just almost.

“Good mornin’, love,” his mother’s flowery voice greets over the cooking noises. “Sleep well?” Her name is Catherine; born in Liverpool but moved to London when she met her husband. She is a beautiful woman, as well as the perfect traditional British housewife in many ways. John hates knowing that her smile has become compromised by the horror of this house.

“Yeah, I did,” he lies. Harry (short for Harriet), John’s twin sister, gives him a look. She heard it too.

“Breakfast is almost ready, love,” his mum confirms. “It’s your favourite!” 

John hums his approval while preparing a cup of tea for himself. The room maintains a sense of light while his father sleeps on the first floor. The three of them bask in it for a few fleeting moments.

—

The following Monday, John is meandering his way between classes. He is halfway through Year 10 now and yet to grow taller than 1.6 metres, whereas the rest of the boys in his year have largely surpassed him. 

John is aware of these things, regardless of the fact that no one else is. All these negative thoughts fill his mind often on the first day returning to school after a weekend, but they fade when he hears a familiar voice break through.

“Look, John,” a hushed, yet enthusiastic voice prys. It’s the high voice of Sherlock Holmes, John’s best friend and a firecracker of intellect. They walk shoulder-to-shoulder through the halls, towards the science class they both love. “I found a perfect way to keep a miniature apiary in my bedroom!”

It’s quite a sight to see, in fact. The diagram depicts a system in which the bees may roam freely outside the window, and yet still be accessible indoors. Sherlock is more of a theoretical inventor at this stage rather than a legitimate one, but the sheer thought behind it is astonishing. 

“And how do you plan on convincing your mum and dad of that one?” John inquires teasingly. Sherlock, however, is 100 percent serious. He straightens his posture and makes his voice just _that much more_ posh than it was before. 

“I will give a reasonable and eloquent argument towards the benefits, since having the apiary in my bedroom would not only add convenience, but safety for anyone that wants to be in the garden.”

“Rather impressive, I’d say,” John replies as a smile spreads across his face. 

“Expect nothing less from me, John,” Sherlock confirms with a nod, only to lock eyes with John. The two dissolve into giggles right as they reach the classroom door. 

Their chemistry instructor, Mr. Sawyer, has a conflicting relationship with these two students. While they are indeed brilliant, he will admit, they are so engrossed in a separate world that their intellect seldom reaches the rest of the students. 

John and Sherlock sit in their same spots as always, still shaking off giggles, then proceed to take out their coursework from the weekend. Sherlock pulls out multiple additional sheets with various chemical algorithms that he did to pass time, much to Mr. Sawyer’s chagrin. Their teacher weaves his way through the desks, picking up the work until he reaches Sherlock’s desk. 

“Now what’s this, Holmes?” he asks. 

“Well, Sir, I completed the coursework so quickly that I had time to conduct some additional experiments and tests that I thought you may want to take a look at,” Sherlock explains. John smiles warmly while looking down at his desk. Many of the other students look bemused by his frank nature of explaining, but John finds it charming. Mr. Sawyer shakes his head with a grin, takes the collection of papers, and continues down the line. 

John starts to notice their classmates stare at Sherlock outside of the teacher’s gaze. He frowns and taps Sherlock on the shoulder, even though he’s unsure if his friend is aware of what’s happening. 

There is a rather intense level of protectiveness John feels towards his friend, but it is in no way unnecessary. In the short few months they’ve known each other, there have been a dozen incidents in which nasty notes and comments have been left in their wake. As they have gotten closer, it has become harder for John to resist retaliating in some way. He knows where that nasty impulse comes from, though, so he tries his best to kill it.

Ever since the two boys met at the start of Year 10, John spent many evenings a week at the Holmes residence. Both of Sherlock’s parents are always unbelievably kind to John, and no one has ever questioned why it is that he wishes to eat dinner with a family separate from his own multiple nights a week. It seems as if Violet Holmes already understood from the moment she first saw him, but never acknowledges it with anything more than a soft smile and a welcoming cup of tea. 

In the Holmes house, no child is ever questioned vigorously if he wishes to share a bed with his best friend. It is safety and warmth, and all the things the Watson house so often is not. 

—

It’s half-ten on a Wednesday, when much of London’s secondary school students are winding down to sleep. John Watson, however, is quickly, shakily, making his way across the city. 

When he finally reaches Sherlock’s front door, he realises there is a decision to make. Does he knock, risking that one of or both of Sherlock’s parents come to the threshold with far too many questions? No. But, if he does not knock, what is he going to do? He sorts through his rapid forming, anxious thoughts and only then notices that Sherlock’s bedroom window is ajar. A dim light shines through the curtains, and he sighs with relief. 

“Sherlock…” he shout-whispers underneath the first story window. Nothing in response. Instead, he listens closer only to hear a melody he vaguely recalls. It’s something Sherlock played for him one night, by a band he likes. 

_“_ _And laughing break against your feet_

_And laughing break the mirror sweet_

_So we shall be together_

_So we shall be together”_

The Cure, was it? John snaps his fingers in recognition. The weight of the lyrics shakes something in his gut, but he ignores it to face the situation at hand. He searches around the garden, looking for something he could toss up at the window. There is a twig from the neighbouring tree, a few small pebbles, and a patch of flowers. Seems the pebbles will have to do. _I’ve seen far too many films like this,_ John thinks to himself, noticing a twinge of shame form in his chest. Still, he’s come all this way, so he will follow the cliche regardless. 

John pitches the first moderately sized pebble up to the window, only to miss and hit the wall. He scoffs, takes a breath, and shoots the other. It _almost_ reaches the window, and by almost… it hit the tree behind him. Deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, picks the spot he’s going to aim, and finally he’s successful. The smallest of the pebbles hits the paned glass above the opening with a _tink,_ and now John can only hope the noise is enough. 

“Sherlock!” he whisper-yells. Nothing. He goes to collect the pebbles from the ground to toss them up there again, and his aim improves over the next three throws. One hits the plastic surrounding the opening, another, hits the glass again, and finally the last goes through and lands in Sherlock’s room.

“Sherlock!” he says again, and finally the silhouette of his friend can be seen through the lit window.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock whisper-yells back.

“Let me in!” John responds. He isn’t certain if he can even be heard, but knowing Sherlock, he can most likely read lips. 

There is a short nod from up above, and the curly mop of brown hair vanishes from the window sill. John takes this signal to run to the front door, and is greeted a moment later by Sherlock opening the door, quiet as possible. The two rush up the staircase and enclose themselves in the haven of Sherlock’s bedroom. 

John hopes for no penetrating questions of _what happened?_ or _what was it this time?,_ pleading in his soul that he can avoid any talk of the hell back in the Watson residence.

Instead, Sherlock hands him a cassette tape with the cover still on. It’s brand new, and John has never seen it before. In the top left corner is the word _Buzzcocks_ in a somewhat Ziggy Stardust-esque font. The background is a bright yellow, and a black triangle frames four shadowy male figures, contrasted by the bright oranges, yellows, and purples that surround them. Along the bottom of the triangle are the words _a different kind of tension_ twice over. 

“Are you going to explain what this album is or just have me guess, then?” John asks with an intentional sarcasm.

Sherlock rolls his eyes with a playful grin, “They’re from Manchester, and I got a couple of their albums on vinyl and on tape. You have your Walkman, yeah?”

John pulls out the small single-cassette player and waves it at his friend, proceeding to put the cassette inside. The music begins, a distinct, punk beat enters John’s ears, and as he always does when listening to music like this, he feels energized. 

_Where in the world are we_

_Everything's fake nothing's real_

_I guess it just depends on how you feel_

_Why are you wasting my time_

Upon leaving his house, John was feeling exhausted. Like all the toxicity within its four walls sapped all possible energy he could have. But now, he's sitting next to the most brilliant person he knows, his best friend, listening to a new album that doesn't yet hold all of his emotions within its beats, and an intensity spreads through him that made the idea of sleep sound impossible right now.

“Can we go outside for a bit? Skip rocks on the creek or something?” John asks, beaming up at Sherlock. 

“O-oh, sure, let me just put a coat on,” he responds, taken aback for a mere moment before he understands what’s happening. They’ve done this social dance before. 

—

The creek behind the Holmes residence is quite modest, really, but it is large enough for John to attempt to skip rocks and look extra impressive when he manages it. He jumps around, as Sherlock sits perched up on a boulder watching. 

If the only lightsource they have wasn’t a flashlight in a cup, John might be more certain that he catches Sherlock smiling at him whenever he cheers with success. It's different, seeing Sherlock smile at night, in dim lighting and no one but John around. Sure, he smiles at school sometimes. A little grin in the corner of his mouth, a tiny symbol that he’s managed to make John smile or laugh in the halls. But out here, in the dark, alone, Sherlock’s smile takes on a separate form. It spreads across his face, it crinkles the sides of the eyes, it raises his cheeks, it takes over the often detached, contained expression and becomes something of a different nature. The softness of his face takes centre stage, and shows a side of him that few people believe to even exist. John’s only seen it when they’re alone.

John finds joy in little else but that smile.

Before he can let his mind wander too far, John snaps himself back into it in a rather unfortunate manner, by slipping on one of the rocks he’s been standing on to throw his ammunition. He hits his head on a few smaller stones submerged in the water behind him, with a resounding _FUCK!_

Sherlock sprints over to John as fast as his legs can manage.

“John! John, are you alright?” Sherlock stammers through his words, his voice higher than normal. 

John shakes his head of the fog in front of his eyes and looks up at Sherlock. For a second, or half of one, John sees the gloss of tears around Sherlock’s eyes. A care and concern and maybe—something else lines his face. Ignoring what he sees, John grabs the back of his own head and feels for a bump, or blood, but he can’t quite distinguish between water and blood at the moment.

“I-I’m fine, I think? I need to dry off first. We didn’t bring a towel, did we?”

“No, but I’ll take you upstairs and you can dry off. Thank god you didn’t get knocked out.”

“A couple rocks can’t take me down that easy! Please, you know I’m stronger than that,” John says, dismissing the obvious shock on his friend’s face. 

Sherlock sighs, trying to relieve some of his own tension, and helps John stand up. 

Upon entering through the back door of the house, Sherlock flicks the light on to see his mother in her dressing gown, looking at the two boys. John, soaking wet and holding the back of his head, and Sherlock, covered in mud. 

“I see you have decided to have some late night adventures,” Violet Holmes says in her typical, gentle cadence. But there’s a very slight venom behind it.

“Mother, we were just skipping rocks and then John slipped. He needs to wash up a bit, and then we’re going to bed,” Sherlock responds in his typical, matter-of-fact speech. John always thought it strange how formal Sherlock and Mycroft are with their parents, but given his home life, he never actually asks about it.

“I gathered that may be the case,” she replies, handing John a clean towel. Somehow she picked all that up before even seeing the two of them downstairs. This family… “And would you like to tell me why you were on the creek at 11 o’clock on a school night, Sherlock?”

“I-” Sherlock starts.

“It was my idea, Mrs. Holmes. I should have known better, I’m sorry,” John interrupts, drying his hair on the towel carefully, making sure to check if he’s bleeding.

Violet sighs with reserve. “I’m just glad you’re both safe. Please, no more late night adventures without telling somebody first?”

John was taken aback by her gentleness for a moment. He has been visiting Sherlock’s house for years at this point, and yet even still he is shocked by how forgiving Violet and Siegfried are to both their own children, as well as to him. Even if there is discipline, it is backed with an obvious concern, and most of all, love. Sherlock and Mycroft may not always see it, but John does. John always, always does.

There is a pause in the conversation as Violet goes over to the kettle to fill it up with more water. Sherlock keeps pulling John closer and closer to the door out of the kitchen, but John is resistant.

“Go ahead and wash up, John. I’ll have a cup of herbal tea ready for you when you get out, yes?” Violet offers, looking back to John and her son with a warm smile.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Holmes,” John replies, bowing his head before Sherlock pulls him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. 

All John can think about for the rest of the evening is how Mrs. Holmes knew that her son was out of the house in the middle of the night after all of thirty minutes, whereas it will be a genuine surprise if his parents even notice that he stayed at Sherlock’s tonight at all.


	2. i love someone who looks like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As we fast forward a few years into the future, John's life exists in a setting quite unlike it was in the years before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: alcoholism, physical abuse, PTSD flashbacks, and internalized homophobia
> 
> This chapter gets pretty heavy, much heavier than the first. Tread lightly, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

_I love someone who looks like you_

_The way you do but isn't you_

_It's still the same sad sordid story_

_Suffering sinner slave to glory_

_~ Innocent - The Buzzcocks_

**July 1992**

On the morning of his 17th birthday, John is shaken awake by the thin, spidery hand of someone familiar. 

“Joooohn, come on, get up! The day’s already started and we’re losing precious time!” Mary Morstan, aged 17, tugs at John Watson’s covers with a fervency that he does not understand. He groans in response, trying to pull the covers over his hungover head to at least somewhat muffle his girlfriend’s pleas. He has always hated his birthday.

“We’re going to miss the train to Brighton if you don’t get up now, John, come on!” She curls up next to him, and starts poking his back over and over. John groans again, irritated even further.

“Can’t we just take the next one? M’head hurts,” John mumbles, coming to terms with the fact that groaning will not be enough to silence Mary’s insatiable energy right now.

“John, this is your last birthday before adulthood, you can’t let a little headache keep us from having fun,” she says, attempting to sway him further. “C’mon, you can take some paracetamol and wear sunglasses, we can’t miss out on the good weather!”

Realising he will certainly lose this fight, John turns over onto his back and looks up at his girlfriend. She has fair skin and dyed black hair, cut in a bob. They’ve been together since March, and it’s good. Normal. Normal and good.

Upon turning the water on for a shower, John makes certain that it’s as hot as he can manage without burning himself before stepping in. He washes off the booze and the sweat from the night before, but most important, he washes off the memories of the dream he had.

_Loud, deep-voiced shouts echo through the room as a boy with dark, curly hair frowns at him. Plates smash against the wall as John turns away from the boy. Silence._

Nightmares for John are much like the weather, or needing to take a piss, or aging. A constant, neverending force that is impossible to remove from his human experience. Sometimes they force him awake in a cold sweat, but even then, it feels much like clockwork.

Showering not only provides somewhat of a blank slate for the day, but it equally provides time away from the high, feminine voice of Mary. She’s a nice girl, kind in her nature, and fun too. She takes John on adventures, motivates him, keeps him straight. But every time he thinks about her too much, he finds himself feeling sick to his stomach. Her voice, too close to a 13 year old boy he once knew. Her face, just a bit off. John shivers underneath the hot water.

He spends much of his nights at her family’s home, at this point. It’s acceptable, and his parents don’t mind as it often means they have one less mouth to feed. He’ll take the sick feelings over a broken nose.

John gets dressed in his jeans and stonewashed denim jacket, lined with multiple homemade buttons of bands he (at least openly) enjoys. Led Zeppelin, Queen, Sex Pistols, Depeche Mode, etc. He leaves off the more “flamboyant” groups.

Mary was dressed in her typical attire, black, knee-length cashmere dress, black tights, and, of course, black creepers. Summer was the time the two of them were allowed to express themselves in the way they wished to, and this little day trip to Brighton was a perfect opportunity.

—

The train ride is uneventful, and as they arrive in Brighton, the streets are bustling with families and students along Palace Pier. Mary grabs John’s hand, and leads him to the new Twister ride with no hesitation. His hangover is still lingering a bit, but not enough for him to resist the thrill rides. 

Hours pass of the couple enjoying the attractions together, Mary running around and making sure John keeps up. They get fish and chips, and it’s the definition of a typical date in every way. This has become John’s idea of normalcy, and it works, he thinks. Well, it works until it doesn’t. Looking up from his food, John freezes. A wave of panic washes over every muscle, every cell in his body. 

_He’s here._

Mary asks a question that John cannot possibly hear right now, and he just stares. Sherlock Holmes, curly hair that is now dyed black and cut shorter than before, is sitting just two tables down from him. He is wearing a leather vest, covered in patches and buttons, a black button up shirt, and ripped black jeans. He has black eye makeup and black lips. All of this, John could predict with ease. But, there’s something else glaring in John’s vision. Slicing into his veins and draining him of any semblance of life. 

Sherlock is sitting, smiling, flirting, with another boy.

He runs so fast that Mary’s attempts to catch up are near impossible. He runs, and runs, and runs, until his lungs burn and ache with a fire that he knows only too well. He runs until he does not run anymore. Until he collapses on the concrete pavement, in front of a building of some sort. Even as he falls, all John can see before him is not the street signs or his legs or people passing by. All he can see is a crying, curly haired boy, sitting on the floor as John’s father screams across the house. He cannot feel the burning in his lungs so much as he instead feels the blood streaming out of his nose and mouth from where his father’s fist met his skin. John cannot move, he just curls into himself on the ground, hyperventilating.

When she catches up after two, three, maybe 100 minutes, Mary tries to place her hand on his shoulder but he jumps away from it. He hears an echo of a voice, like a distant memory of a current event. John’s eyes burn, much like his lungs. 

Finally, he sees a water droplet fall onto the light grey concrete beneath him, and he realises that it is coming from his eyes. 

“John,” Mary whispers from somewhere. “John, what’s happening?” She sounds concerned. _Loving. Distant._

Her words register for the first time, but he cannot make himself look at her. Once, twice, now three times he has tried to answer, but words will not manifest in his mouth. How can he articulate what just happened when he doesn’t know? What possible explanation is there for this?

“I-I… I just saw something… Something I didn’t want to see. I…” 

“John, you ran five blocks from the pier and left all of your stuff behind. What could you have possibly seen that would make you run that fast, that far?” 

The chirp in Mary’s voice grates against his eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. Every syllable feels like his brain is being put through a shredder. He grabs his Walkman out of his jacket’s inside pocket, with his favourite cassette sealed within and rewinds it. The cassette was for one of the artists he didn’t advertise on his jacket to the public. Few people even knew he owned this tape. He put the headphones on and skipped over the first song, as was customary for him at this point. The second song bursts through his ears, soothing the rattling in his chest.

_Looking back on life is such a retrospective thing_

_Hoping for some nice advice that only you could bring_

_But you came as in a storm when the woolly dreams were shorn off my back_

_Suffer cold reality's sting_

Yesterday’s Not Here by Pete Shelley, released in 1981. He listed the full track list of the Homosapien album in his mind as the exercise he knows all too well. He’s been with Mary for four months, and most of the time, John has been able to contain these outbursts he doesn’t understand to when he takes showers, or long after she falls asleep, or when he is otherwise alone. But they are in a different city, a different world away from the consistency of London. There is no hiding from Mary this time.

“John!” Mary shouts, (or maybe she whispers) cutting through the music. He removes one ear of his headphones, still not looking at her. 

“What?” he responds in a deadpan. The music wipes away the feelings trapped in his brain, like a clean slate. His face tightens, and the redness in his eyes turns into nothing but a distant memory. 

“You can’t pretend like that didn’t just happen. You scared the shit out of me!” She sits next to him and tries to touch him again, this time on the knee. He accepts with little but an internal reluctance.

“It was nothing. I just… freaked out for a second. It’s fine. Let’s go somewhere else,” he responds, standing up and taking his bag from Mary’s hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” There is no genuinity behind his words. 

Maybe, he didn’t even see Sherlock. Maybe he just saw someone like him.

Maybe, John thought, he imagined it in its entirety. 

* * *

**June 1991**

Two sets of giggles fill the room as Sherlock and John lay on Sherlock’s bed. It’s a warm summer morning, without doubt making its way into a hot summer day, and they’re both just wearing their blue jeans. Sherlock turns to face him, and the fast paced conversation from before takes a striking halt.

“John,” Sherlock says, as if his name is a statement in and of itself, and rests atop John’s chest, looking up at him despite being the taller of the two.

“Sherlock,” John returns, placing a hand, playful, in his hair.

“We should drive out to the beach,” leaning into the touch.

John scoffs, “You? Sherlock Holmes? You want to go to the beach? With people, children, and noise?” 

“Perhaps a more secluded one. I heard about this hidden beach in Whitstable that’s only an hours drive from here. Come on, it could be nice. We’ve done nothing whatsoever since summer holiday started, and we both know our families won’t do anything of actual interest,” Sherlock pleads. 

John can’t help but smile at him. 

“Sure. I’ll go pack us some sandwiches while you get ready?” 

“Excellent,” Sherlock beams and kisses him.

 _How did I manage to get this lucky,_ John thought.

* * *

**July 1992**

Cheap, light beer doesn’t burn when going down like it did when he was younger. John downs the bottle, nursing an appropriate buzz before sitting down to play Punch Out on the NES. He owns very few valuable things, but his Walkman and his NES were two that he makes sure to protect. Given the nature of his household, he never leaves it in the living room, so he has to set it up every time. But, his parents are out of the house for a wedding of a coworker or some other shit John didn’t bother to listen to, so he has the common area to himself for a bit while Harry’s out with friends. 

When he came home from Mary’s earlier in the afternoon, there was a letter on the kitchen counter from an alias he recognised all too well, Sherrinford. They had created codenames for one another back in Year 11, sort of like a game. John’s was Ormond. Now, they held a separate meaning all together.

The letter sits on the coffee table in front of John now, and on occasion, when he reaches to sip another beer, it catches the corner of his eye. The envelope is ivory, the return address is in Surrey, and the penmanship is neat and confined. It mocks him. 

After the fourth beer, John decides he may as well open it. He cuts the envelope with a delicacy that is rare to find in someone four drinks in, but he manages it nonetheless. Inside is two pages of loose-leaf lined paper, marked with nothing but the handwriting John knows (knew) so well. 

_John,_

It begins. No “Dear,” no anything. John pretends it doesn’t sting.

_To be honest, I don’t know why I’m writing you. But, I kept finding myself writing this letter down when I did not intend to, so I decided it best to write it with a sense of intention. First things first, happy birthday. I hope your birthday went well, and I hope things at home aren’t too unbearable. Secondly, I hope you know that I don’t wish ill of you, even if you wish as much to me. It took me a long while to figure out who I was angry with, and I’ve come to understand that it was never you. I wanted you to know that first._

_I heard from Harry that you met a girl at college, and you’ve been dating her. I’m happy for you, John. I know that things didn’t… well, I know that things have been difficult for you, and I wanted you to know that I’m glad you found someone. I’ve managed to find someone too, actually. His name is Victor, we go to college together here. My parents finally let me go to a boarding school, and we’re roommates as it turns out. I won’t bore you with the details, though._

_I hope your last year at college goes well. My mother has started asking me about university and I’ve begun to think about where I want to go. I’m rambling a bit, I think._

_I guess my point of writing this is that I want you to know that I still think about you, John, and I hope that you’re doing well, whatever that looks like._

_\- Sherlock_

John reads the name—the real, true name—at the bottom of the page and finds his hand is shaking. His vision blurs in a haze that is not caused by the alcohol. Thoughts somehow both race and freeze at the same time, scattering across John’s mind. 

_Why is he talking to me like I’m some victim? Why did he tell me he has a boyfriend? Why did Harry tell him that I have a girlfriend? Why is he gloating about how good he’s doing and how much he’s thinking about uni? Why is he perfect and I’m so disgusti—_

John rips the letter in pieces, the envelope too, and chugs yet another beer, throwing it violently in the garbage can. He stomps his way to the kitchen, no, the liquor cabinet, grabs the first spirits he can manage to find, and drinks it until the burn is too much for him to handle. Reluctant to stop, John closes the lid again and manages to put it on the counter. Now fully beyond gone, he stumbles up to his room, half-crawling up the stairs. John lands in his bed with a _thud,_ and shoves his face firm into the pillow.

The scream that leaves his lips would be piercing without the muffle of the cotton beneath him.

Harry probably finds the remnants of the letter and the still-on telly and the five dry bottles and doesn’t even have to open John’s door to know what happened. Hell, John has found her in situations all too similar before. The thought doesn’t keep him from an empty, dreamless, blackout sleep.

Mary will call. John will not answer. She will worry. He will dream of him before he ever dreams of her.


	3. it's all running out like it's the end of the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas holiday has quite an adverse effect on John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INTENSE TW: physical abuse, graphic physical violence, homophobic slurs, violent homophobia, alcoholism, and verbal altercations. Please please tread lightly with this chapter, specifically at the beginning. It gets rather intense, and I don't want anyone reading past a point they feel comfortable.
> 
> This fic has quite a few time jumps, and I wanted to specify that this takes place before the events of Chapter 2.

_You shatter me your grip on me a hold on me_

_So dull it kills_

_You stifle me_

_Infectious sense of hopelessness and prayers for rain_

_~ Prayers for Rain - The Cure_

**December 1990**

There are aspects of his father’s personality that John understands even less than he misunderstands the rest. One of these aspects is his obsession with the holiday season. When there is snowfall, evergreen trees, and tinsel, James Watson relishes in it. Christmas music plays on the record player in the living room most of the day, at least on a low volume, and it has led to a rather intense hatred of the often beloved holiday for John. The performative nature of it, the presents, the forceful way in which his family wants to spend time together all of a sudden. He hates it. So, it’s rather fitting that when the last guest from Christmas Eve dinner leaves on this fateful night, Mr. Watson turns to his daughter and asks a boisterous question.

“Harriet, who said you could cut your hair like a dyke?” John and Catherine freeze. Harry looks up at her father, dumbfounded for a moment before her undying wit peeks through. Perhaps she thinks it’s safe right now. James Watson is holding a buzz from a night of mulled wine, that isn’t quite to the stage of violent drunkenness. Maybe it’s safe.

“Didn’t you know, dad, dykes set the trends now?” She says, trying to poke at his chest. Before she reaches him, though, he grabs her arm. 

“ _Don’t_ talk back to me, young lady,” he whispers in a tone everyone present knows all too well.

Harry is silent for a moment before nodding in compliance, only to turn to John and give him a grin. She wasn’t going to back down today.

“Don’t tell _me_ how to cut my hair, old man,” she spits back. Catherine Watson can’t watch, she turns around, trying to tidy while taking anxious sips of wine.

The sound of his hand meeting her cheek resonates across the kitchen, as if vibrating against every surface. John looks up to see the red mark across his sister’s face, and he feels that anger, no, the rage he has come to know well bubbling up in his chest. His sister shrinks, stopped in her spot as their father’s booming voice rattles through the foundation.

“I WILL NOT HAVE A DYKE IN MY HOUSE!” The sentence is an explosive, burning everything in its wake. John has a sense of knowing, knowing that this conversation is no more than an inevitability that he could have foreseen with ease. But seeing it play out in front of him, on Christmas Eve, somehow makes him feel even more sick than he’s anticipated before.

Harry takes a deep breath in, and on the exhale looks back up at her father, red in the face with rage and drink and poison and most of all, hate. 

“Fine. Then you won’t,” she says, with a surface level emotionlessness that John sees through in milliseconds. She turns away from her father, makes her way upstairs to get her bag, and in less than two minutes, Harry Watson is out of the house, out of this broken idea of family. Catherine shouts after her to stay—they’ll work it out, they’ll talk about it—but her pleas are ignored.

John sees his hands shake on the table in front of him, but they feel a world away. He wants to stand up, go in his room, run away, lose consciousness, not exi—no. If he moves, perhaps the snake of a man beside him will begin to see him again. His mother—loving, misguided, wronged—sobs in the foyer while his father, no, the snake, stands in a stillness that is somehow more terrifying than his movement. James Watson grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and goes to the living room, silent, empty, nothing.

Seizing the brief opportunity being provided to him, John races up the stairs and closes his bedroom door in the noiseless way he’s learned to master over the years. Grabs his backpack, shoves as many clothes he can grab in two hands inside, takes as many of his things as he thinks he may need. 

John’s bedroom door slams open with a _thud_ against the wall. The snake has found him. He moved too soon.

“Where the… f-fuck do you think you’re going, huh?” James Watson taunts his only son, pissed beyond hope of sobering. 

Hiding the backpack behind him as much as he can, “Er, nowhere, I was just…”

“You were _just_ being a… ssspineless maggot. Trying to run away from home like a _fucking_ fairy? Your mum is upset enough, are you _really_ gonna make her cry even more?” His voice slithers across the room. 

“No,” John mumbles, looking at the floor.

“S-speak up John.”

“NO!”

“Don’t you fffucking raise your voice at m-me!” James shouts back, running toward John and slamming him against the opposite wall. 

“Get off me, dad,” John says with less harshness than he intends. It comes off as a request, a whisper, a weakness.

“You’re probably a fairy too, huh? God’s just p- _hiccup-_ punishing me for something.” He isn’t so much as asking John as he is asking the non-existent audience.

“Just get off me, dad,” John motions to push him away but James grabs his wrist, constricting.

“You rrreally don’t wanna wind me up right now, Johnny,” he hisses.

Something overtakes John. The buildup, the events of the night, the pressure of fingers pressing into his skin, all of it. He is consumed by it, this dark, thick, fiery _something_ that takes over his body, using the wrist under restraint as an entry point. The moment blurs.

Before he can see what he’s doing, John’s fist plunges into James’ stomach, sending the venomous figure onto the floor with a drunken stumble. 

“OW!” James over-dramatises, placing a hand to his torso, before meeting John’s face yet again. 

Just before he starts kicking.

John’s kicks, and kicks, and kicks, until his legs seem to give way underneath him. Now, _dear God,_ they’re on the same level. James twists a clumsy, but intentional fist around to meet John’s cheek. 

John manages to get up enough to a kneel before another punch hits his knee, knocking him down. James braces himself on the bed to get himself up, and upon standing up, he grabs John. A left hook sends John cascading to the floor again, only for his father to pull him back again. 

It seems to go on like this for hours, years, millenia, before James Watson gives up. He falls to the floor beside his bloody, battered son and laughs. The sound makes John’s ears ring.

“Maybe you’re not a poof after all. You got me pretty good, eh?”

James stands up, offering a hand to his son. As if the abuse he spewed just moments ago was nothing but a dream. John took the offer after a second of hesitance, knowing the penalty for declining would be much worse. He feels his father—the snake, cunning, conniving—pats him on the shoulder with a _job well done,_ and lumbers out of the room in a slight zig zag. 

John closes his bedroom door on an exhale of air. He can’t run out tonight, not after that. But tomorrow. Tomorrow, maybe.

—

Christmas morning is grey, lifeless, empty. Harry’s vacant seat on the sofa silences the three remaining Watson’s with a weight that cannot be acknowledged if James is here. John drinks his morning tea, eats his mother’s delicious breakfast, and then around half-noon, he makes the phone call. Asks if he’s welcome to intrude on the Holmes family’s somewhat unconventional Christmas celebrations. Of course, of course, he is.

At least he’s welcome somewhere.

—

The bruises on his face from the night before are in full bloom on John now. A shiner, a slashed lip, some minor scrapes from hitting the wall. He cannot allow Mr. and Mrs. Holmes to see him like this. They will know, right away. He knocks on the Holmes’ front door hiding his face in a hoodie. 

Thank God. Sherlock is on the other side of the door. 

“Hey,” Sherlock greets him in a voice John misses so much more than he can anticipate every time he doesn’t see him for a few days. 

“Hi,” John sends back, more formal than he intends to sound. 

“Come on in.”

John never has to tell him. Or even ask. Sherlock knows. Sometimes, Sherlock always knowing things irritates him, but right now, he’s grateful. He says mindless _hello’s_ to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and even to a deadpan Mycroft before the two boys venture wordlessly upstairs. As the door snaps shut, John lowers his hood. Before he even turns around to see, Sherlock knows what he’s about to see.

“Harry?” Sherlock heard from John’s twin about her intent to cut her hair just a few days ago, of course he knows.

“It’s nothing.” 

“John.” Sherlock turns around, bringing a cotton pad dampened with alcohol up to his friend’s cut lip. John pulls away.

“It’s. Nothing.”

“This is worse than usual. What happened? You know you can talk to me, John,” Sherlock speaks with a delicacy John doesn’t comprehend. 

_Why is he treating me like a baby?_

“I said it’s nothing, just. Needed to get away from the house.”

“Okay,” Sherlock submits, knowing this isn’t going to get him anywhere. “It’s nothing, then.”

A silence as the two boys sit adjacent to one another on Sherlock’s mattress. The air is heavy with John’s lack of words. He can’t lie to Sherlock, he knows that well enough. The longer he pretends this is like all the other times, the worse it will get. 

_If I tell him why, will he think it means something about me? Will he think—no. Sherlock’s fine with Harry, and he’s known the truth about her since the beginning. Surely he knows that I’m not—_

“He told her to get out.”

Silence. Endless. Until, 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“For…”

“You know what for.”

“Yeah. I do.”

—

“A microscope? John, this one must be at least—”

“I saved for it, it was no problem,” John says, a smile finding its way on his lips as he sees his best friend beam in front of him. Sherlock pauses a moment, staring at the gift in his hands. After a contemplative breath, he looks up at John.

“Thank you.”

There’s a twinge of _something_ behind Sherlock’s eyes. John can’t seem to recognise it. It isn’t the typical, friendly exchange they share in the halls of school, or the secret, private smile he reserves for when John makes him laugh particularly hard. This look is different. The room feels loud in its stillness. John tries to deduce, to search for what lies behind his best friend’s irises until he notices that he’s been looking for far too long at his ~~beautiful, complex, perfect, blue~~ eyes. 

“What?” Sherlock asks. John pulls his focus to the still-wrapped parcel in Sherlock’s hands.

“N-nothing. Give me mine.”

Sherlock complies, handing the gift over with a grin. John rips the gift-wrap off with gusto, unveiling a denim jacket, lined with green tartan. 

“Holy shit, Sherlock.”

“You mentioned a while back that you wanted one to stonewash and put buttons on it, so I thought—”

“It’s perfect,” John can’t help but smile, even if his cheek aches from the bruise. 

Sherlock seems to push down the smile on his own face as John looks up at him, but before he can think of why that is, there’s a knock on the door.

John watches, frozen, as Sherlock shoots up from his seat on the bed to run down the stairs shouting, “I’ll get it!” As the front door opens with a creak, John wakes himself from stillness enough to move down to the first landing to listen. 

“Hello, Mr. Watson,” Sherlock says with his typical false confidence voice. John holds his breath, stopped in his perch like a bird, helpless to the will of its predator.

“Hiya, Sherlock,” James Watson’s voice booms. “Johnny decided to run off during Christmas, and I can’t seem to find out where he went. I figured here was the best place to look.” Even if the common witness would not be able to place it, John senses the drink beneath his father’s words. The venom. The rage.

Instead of Sherlock’s reply that he expects, Violet’s voice echoes up the staircase, a protective barrier covering the flightless bird above. He spots the heel of Sherlock’s foot, backing away from the door.

“Hello, James! Happy Christmas to you. I’m quite sorry to hear about your boy going missing, but I can’t say I’ve seen him today. The four of us will make sure to keep an eye out.”

“Where else would he have gone, then?” A tinge of his true nature seeps through the question.

“Now that, I’m not too sure. Best of luck to you, though, James, and I’ll make sure to call your missus as soon as we hear a word.”

An exasperated sigh, and then, “Alright… thank you.” It’s the closest to an expression of gratitude that James Watson is capable of, but John can just imagine the noxious look he shoots Sherlock as the door shuts. 

_They just lied to my father for me. Sherlock’s mum just lied to my father to keep me away from him. Sherlock was going to lie for me too._

John sits in a daze, coming to terms with just how absurd what just happened is. That his friend would lie for him is one thing, but his best friend’s _mother._

Sherlock’s voice pulls him out of the inevitable spiral for a moment.

“C’mon, John, let’s go back upstairs. I have a new album to show you,” Sherlock gestures for him to stand up as he makes his way back to the privacy of his bedroom. 

The door shuts behind them, and John can’t seem to stop his mind from running away from him.

“Why did your mum just lie for me?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Don’t. Just, don’t bullshit me here, okay?”

A sigh, an inhale.

“Was it because everyone in this house knows without even having to look at me? Because you lot always know everything about everyone all the time and you’re always aware of everyone’s business even if they don’t want you to be?”

“No, of course no—”

“Or is it because I’m so obviously a victim who needs to be protected by all of you? I don’t need your protection, or your mum’s, or anybody’s! I don’t need _you_ to keep me safe!”

“John—”

There is a white heat behind John’s eyes, but it isn’t with the same as the blinding rage from last night. It’s quiet, and accompanied by a pain in his chest that he isn’t used to feeling in front of Sherlock. He can’t pinpoint it before words continue to fall out of his mouth.

“You don’t get to swaddle me like I’m a fucking baby bird, okay? I can handle my insane fucking dad without you and your mum lying for me. I’m fine, I’ll be fine, I’m—”

There is a slow, and then there is a damp spot on John’s cheek that he can’t place as tears until they drop in his lap. Worst of all, though, there is a palm on John’s shoulder, warm, soothing—

_Oh._

John re-enters his body with a jolt of realisation and a spark of a familiar feeling he has ignored for far too long. Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder is simple, something any friend would do to another who is crying on their bed in front of them. But somehow, Sherlock’s comforting palm is infinite in its danger and endless in its intensity. It does not feel like a friend’s consoling touch, but more akin to sharp, piercing start to something terrifying. If he meets Sherlock’s eyes, his own might just burn.

John pushes the perilous hand away in a swift motion, staring at his lap.

“John.” The way Sherlock says it sounds like a wish, a prayer, almost. Like he’s asking for nothing and everything all at once. 

“I need the loo,” John says, dismissive as he walks out of the room to escape for a moment.

The water hits his face in a cascade, getting his shirt wet in the process. He lacks the energy to care, or, it seems, to remember the open wounds on his face. He hisses with the sting of cold water hitting the scrape under his eye, but it’s better than the cacophony of whatever the fuck he was feeling in Sherlock’s room the moment before.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: https://dandyholmes.tumblr.com


End file.
